


a conquering virtue

by pratktcven (calciseptine)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alien Cultural Differences, Established Relationship, Fluff, Interspecies Romance, Light Angst, M/M, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/pratktcven
Summary: "Old?" Lance reiterates, wrinkling his nose at Kolivan's quiet admission. "Really?"





	a conquering virtue

War for the Blade of Marmora is information and subterfuge. It is the patient gathering of secrets, the careful construction of a plan, and the exhilarating rush of execution. Unfortunately, war for the Blade is also long stretches of waiting, and on days like this one—when there is nothing to do but idle—Kolivan feels old.

"Old?" Lance reiterates, wrinkling his nose at Kolivan's quiet admission. "Really?"

"Yes," says Kolivan. It is not hard to be vulnerable in the familiarity of Lance's quarters, sitting together atop Lance's unmade bed. "Patience has never been my strongest quality, but the last thirty-nine pheebs have taught me much."

"Wait, how many pheebs?" Lance blurts. "I thought you were like forty! Which is old but not _old_ old. Just... old _er_? Firmly middle aged instead of feeble and losing your mind."

Kolivan cocks his head. It takes time to parse Lance's words through the filter of their different cultures, but he gets it. Eventually. And Lance is correct in his assumptions; Kolivan is in the prime of his life, when his wisdom and his physical prowess have settled comfortably in the cage of his singular body, neither one more important nor more prominent than the other.

"Your assessment is accurate," Kolivan tells Lance softly.

"It is?" Lance blinks, as though startled by his own insight. "Oh."

Kolivan says nothing. After the Blade allied with Voltron, he quickly learned that Lance had a bad habit of underestimating himself—downplaying his intellect and his skill—but it has never interfered with his duty as a paladin, so Kolivan remained silent. Besides, Kolivan is not the kind of being who goes out of his way to assuage other people. He states his opinions like facts and his facts like truth, and lets others take his honesty the way they will. Knowledge does not need to be dressed up or expounded upon, and everything else is superfluous and needless.

"So how old are you?" Lance inquires after a moment, his lean legs shifting. He is not nervous, not entirely, though the soft anxiety radiating from his posture confuses Kolivan.

"Why the interest?" Kolivan asks instead of answering.

"Because I just realized that I don't know," Lance murmurs. His hands twist in his lap—pick at the hole in the knee of his jeans—grab a stray thread at the hem of his long jacket. Then, more quietly, "And I want to, I guess."

Kolivan tilts his head. For all his bluster, Lance is rarely straightforward. He speaks directly when it matters, during missions and at the war table and in the middle of negotiations, but he deflects when the subjects turn personal. It is so expertly done that it had taken Kolivan months to realize that Lance wore a mask; indeed, he sometimes still wonders if Lance's actions are done unconsciously or with careful deliberation.

"My age matters to you," Kolivan says aloud. Lance's cheeks darken, a redness that is nearly imperceptible in the dim light. "Why?"

"Because you're my boyfriend and I want to know?" Lance's shoulders tense and his hands become unnaturally still. "Like—do you even know how old _I_ am?"

"No," Kolivan replies. "I do not."

They sit in silence after the admission. Lance's strange mood has deepened and edged him to frustration. Kolivan wonders if age is culturally significant to Lance and his people, the way status is to the Galra, and if he has been remiss in an unknowable way. 

"Sorry," Lance murmurs after several quiet doboshes. "It's just—I realized that even though we're dating—I don't know much about you. Like, I know romantic relationships don't hinge on knowing your partner's favorite color, but it's still something I _feel_ like I should know. I _want_ to know. I like you a whole freaking lot, and..." Lance huffs. "It's stupid, sorry."

Kolivan pauses to consider Lance's confession. He tries to downplay the strange weight of his words but does not succeed. Kolivan is a master strategist, after all, and he has long since learned all of Lance's tactics.

"Your first assessment is again correct," Kolivan agrees slowly, exchanging Lance's lightness for gentle gravity. "It is not necessary to know such insignificant details to maintain our courtship. But as to the second statement: your wants are never stupid, Lance, even if you believe them to be small."

Lance does not smile as he looks up at Kolivan. Instead, an ineffable emotion shines in his expressive eyes, a hint of gratitude mixed with fondness and frailty. Kolivan is helpless to react, unable to stop himself from reaching up and cradling Lance's narrow face in the palm of his hand. His fingers curl around Lance's jaw and the callused pad of his thumb sits on the upper swell of Lance's cheek.

"I cannot tell you my age," Kolivan admits. "I was born in the chaos of the outer colonies, in an outpost where there were more drones than people. I never knew my sire, and I was a kit when my bearer died in a rebel skirmish."

"Kol," Lance murmurs as his eyebrows furrow, as he places his smooth hand on the back of Kolivan's. It is a gesture of comfort that Kolivan does not need, but accepts.

"My orphanage is an old hurt," Kolivan assures. "But because of it, I can only say that I am as old as I am, and let those around me perceive it as they will."

"So... middle-aged?"

"Yes," Kolivan says.

"Thank you for telling me." Lance sighs and leans further into Kolivan's touch. "I guess this is the part when I tell you that I'm nineteen—in Earth years, which man, I don't even know how that translates—but it's like you said. I am as old as I am."

Kolivan hums. Nineteen human years may be vastly different than the standard nineteen pheebs, and he cannot convert Lance's age into more familiar terms without a frame of reference. Kolivan supposes he could attempt to figure it out, perhaps with the help of the green paladin, but he has no real desire to. Lance may be young—his body recently bloomed into full adulthood—but his mind and his experiences are what make him, what draw Kolivan to him. He tells Lance as much, and this time, feels the heat of Lance's cheek as his blush deepens.

"Flatterer," Lance accuses.

"No," Kolivan denies. "Flattery implies that I am stretching the truth."

"So what are you doing?"

"Stating fact," Kolivan answers. Then, more quietly, "But if you are still curious about my favorite color, I must tell you that I am quite fond of the shade of your eyes. The red of your mouth. The brown of your skin—"

When Lance climbs into Kolivan's lap and stops Kolivan's honesty with a kiss, Kolivan immediately presses back. He can feel the shape of Lance's smile against his mouth, bright and alive and warm, and it makes him realize that he can no longer feel the weight of stagnation in his bones. He is exactly where and how he should be. For the first time in his life, the slow wait for the future is not a burden.

It is a gift. 

.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my voltrash blog, [@pratktcven](http://pratktcven.tumblr.com/about)


End file.
